


Confederacy

by Reminscees



Series: From Dusk Till Dawn [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Diplomacy, Drama, M/M, Politics, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reminscees/pseuds/Reminscees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now he was here, right here, peacefully sleeping the sleep of the damned next to him, under a sky full of imaginary castles- radar technology- and planes and bombers, under a curtain of darkness and death-<br/>Arthur supposed that if Alfred slept the sleep of the damned, he slept the night of the saved."</p><p>America and England through the war, how it ended and how it began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confederacy

Confederacy

**_con·fed·er·a·cy_ **

_/kən-ˈfe-d(ə-)rə-sē/_

_Noun_

_1\. A league or alliance_

_2\. A union of people or groups formed for an illicit purpose_

_Synonyms_

_Alliance – Federation - Partnership_

:::

_01._

_Let’s talk of graves,_

_Of worms,_

_And epitaphs._

The room was cold and dark, there was no moonlight from the windows: Blackout, naturally. Arthur watched Alfred’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. He frowned at the resting face, it was calm and young, although there were dark circles underneath his closed eyes. Arthur ran a hand through Alfred’s hair, pushing it back and tucking it behind his ear, watching Alfred’s eyelashes flutter, but he did not stir awake or move away. If anything, he moved closer to Arthur, rearranging himself so that Arthur was tucked neatly between his arms and flush to his chest. Arthur felt a hand run up and down his back.

_So he had been awake._

Arthur frowned once more, rolling over so that he was staring at the ceiling. It hurt his heart too much to look at Alfred.

They were too different, far too different. Alfred was brighter and younger and louder, and Arthur was darker and cynical and ruder, yet he possessed far better manners than Alfred ever did, even though Arthur was the one who taught Alfred all he knew.

All Arthur ever wanted Alfred to be was a reflection of himself.

Now, looking at a mirror, all Arthur saw was himself, no more images of Alfred, and he imagined the mirror cracking and pieces falling out as it understood the sight of a torn, tired, and battered individual, alone and cynical, in comparison to Alfred, bright and successful, he had been forced into the war, into everything once more, without reason. It was European, first, and now-

Now he was _here_ , right here, peacefully sleeping the sleep of the damned next to him, under a sky full of imaginary castles- radar technology- and planes and bombers, under a curtain of darkness and death-

Arthur supposed that if Alfred slept the sleep of the damned, he slept the night of the saved-

He needed him too much.

_After all these years-_

Perhaps it was only the war.

_Aren’t I wicked, then?_

Arthur swallowed thickly as Alfred flung an arm numbly over Arthur’s bare chest. He felt his broad, callused fingers curl around Arthur’s back and ribcage. Arthur inhaled a sharp breath as Alfred moved, almost lying on top of Arthur, balancing on his forearm which was flush against Arthur’s side. His hair fell into his face, and Arthur looked up at him as Alfred stared back, silently, his eyes wide open, his lips pressed into a frown. Arthur inhaled a quick breath, as though he wanted to say something, but stopped when he felt Alfred fall back next to him, lying on his side once more. Arthur turned to look at him, and Alfred stared back once more. He lifted a hand, touching Arthur’s cheek so softly it hurt, as though he were asleep. Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“If I die tomorrow,” Arthur said calmly and slowly, hesitantly stating his words, “I want... I want you to know... I want you to...” He trailed off and swallowed, opening his eyes to look at Alfred, who, surprisingly, looked at him worriedly.

“Want me to what, Arthur?” He said, no trace of a smile on his lips. Arthur curled a hand into Alfred’s hair as he searched his face.

:::

_“Alfred,” Arthur brushed back his hair, “Alfred, stop crying.”_

_Alfred let loose another sob._

_“Listen,” Arthur gripped Alfred’s face harshly in his palms._

_“ You,” He began, “Are not allowed to give up.”_

_“ We are,” Arthur gestured to himself, “Don’t you dare give us a reason to.”_

:::

“Just... Pretend that you,” He began, breath heavy on his lips, “That there is more to this. That there isn’t a war.”

“... I’m shit at pretending.” Alfred said, his eyes closing once more, fluttering yet again.

Arthur stared up at him as he opened his mouth once or twice, no sound coming out.

“I’m not going to pretend, okay?” Alfred continued, “This is the truth.”

“A carefully edited one?” Arthur smiled.

“No.” Alfred frowned, “It’s not. And quit the talk about dying, you’re ruining the mood.”

“Dying is an art,” Arthur drawled, “I do it exceptionally well.”

“You’re not going to die,” He said slowly, “I won’t let you.”

There was a flicker- Perhaps more than a flicker.

It was a promise, Arthur realised, a bounding pact.

Alfred drew back and stared at him, and it was a look of sheer honesty that Arthur will never forget, and he etched Alfred’s gaze into his brain, tucked away safely, as he stared at him and bared out his soul and heart, naked and raw and simply _honest_.

Arthur swiped his thumb across his cheek once more.

It was as though Arthur saw a comeback in broad day to the same place, the same face, with the same brute amused shout, and he could see the scene unfold in front of him as though he visualised them from a window, as though he were the casual watcher in the street to a bright, yellow window.

It was a beautiful break from reality: A keen, cold, gust of dreams and hope, as though someone had turned off the light allowing stars to be seen in brilliant, dark night.         

“I know it sometimes upsets you to look at me,” Alfred said, “But... Tonight, can you-”

“It doesn’t upset me.”                                                                     

Alfred dropped his gaze. “It makes you cry.” He said hoarsely.

“That’s...” Arthur started, “I don’t...”

“Alfred, listen to me.” He pulled his head back to look into his eyes.

“That’s not why,” He started once more, his voice low, “I love-” Arthur’s voice dropped lower once more as Alfred’s gaze dropped lower, too, “I love to look at you, Alfred.”

“Alfred,” He finished, “You’re very lovely to look at.”

Alfred’s lips were compressed tightly as Arthur ran a hand through his hair once more, tracing his jaw with his fingers, softly.

He had told him he loved him  and Alfred heard him.

:::

_02._

_And learn to make a body of a limb-_

The war in Europe ended, for Arthur and Alfred, unspectacularly. They were in a musty, old army-grade small truck, in the back, in the country-side of Germany or Austria, it was hard to inspect borders at this time, it was almost all allied sectors, anyhow. The radio was on, and as Arthur heard the news of victory, Alfred breathed onto his skin, his uniform askew, and finished with a shout, a mix between a groan and a moan, and one final thrust towards him, breathing heavily on his shoulder. Arthur could only hear blood rushing in his ears from the radio, not from hot, white pleasure. He pulled himself away, numbly, and turned up the volume on the device. Alfred crawled next to him, and they sat there, alone and silent, listening to the crackle as an unsuspecting man confirmed the unconditional surrender from the speakers.

Arthur stared at Alfred.

Alfred stared back.

He didn’t cry, he did not feel fireworks in his stomach or butterflies, he did not even feel truly happy. He was numb, surprised, too, but mostly tired and _numb_.

“Well,” Alfred said with a sigh, buttoning up his uniform once more, “That’s it. It’s over.”

“Here,” Arthur corrected as he tried to tame his hair, “Lest we forget about Japan.”

And that was that.

It was back to business.

No tears fell as Arthur crawled out of the back of the van, sitting himself in the drivers’ seat and slammed the door. He started the car as Alfred leaned out of the window, staring up at the sky with a frown, searching for a sign, maybe, a sign from God.

Arthur’s head and war-wounds hurt among other things, as he drove forward on the road, the van rocking in silence between the green trees. Alfred swallowed, and opened his mouth, as though he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself.

_Don’t be silly._

“Say, Artie,” Alfred started loudly, “What’re we gonna do when it’s all over?”

Arthur stared forward, carrying a neutral expression as he heard Alfred fidget.

“I don’t know.” He said earnestly, and a silence resulted, clashing against the roar of the engine of the van.

“Marry me.”

:::

“ _Ah,” Arthur gasped, “Why do you always have to be so- Jesus Christ\- rough?”_

_“No time... No time to talk.” Alfred moaned as he gripped harder on Arthur’s thighs, pressing a tiny, insecure kiss onto his cheek._

_It was nothing-_

_It was everything-_

_Arthur finished with a shout and collapsed onto the ammunition crates behind him, pulling Alfred on top of him, caressing his face so lightly it burned his skin, an imprint, perhaps._

:::

“Marry me.” He repeated, and made it sound as though it was a command.

“Very funny, Alfred.” Arthur sighed.

“I’m not kidding,” Alfred repeated the request, “Marry me.”

“What?” Arthur scoffed, “Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m serious,” Alfred continued, “We’re alright, aren’t we?”

“Yes, well,” Arthur frowned, “We’re nations. We can’t marry each other, we have a duty to our people.”

“Fuck it,” Alfred laughed loudly, “I don’t care. I want you to marry me.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Arthur laughed sharply.

_Aren’t I wicked, then?_

“’Cause I love you,” Alfred leaned and stroked Arthur’s cheek, his hands were broad and rough, “And you love me.”

Arthur swatted the hand away.

“I don’t believe in rot like that.” He mumbled, “You know I don’t.”

“I’ll make you mine,” Alfred smiled, drawing a hand up and down the back of Arthur’s head, “Nah, screw it; You’re already mine.”

:::

_“How was the raid?” Arthur said over Alfred’s lips._

_“Fine,” Alfred whispered, “Did you miss me?”_

_Arthur scoffed._

_“Don’t be silly,” He answered, “I’ll always miss you.”  He voiced over Alfred’s ear, dragging his lips over the shell._

_Alfred smiled smugly as Arthur carded a hand through Alfred’s hair._

:::

Arthur scowled at the trees in front of him.

“This is an alliance, Alfred,” Arthur said lowly, “Don’t you understand that?”

“An alliance,” Arthur confirmed, “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Do you fuck Francis, too?”

Arthur swallowed thickly.

He wanted to scream in Alfred’s face _‘Yes, I did, you fool! You idiot! Of course I did, you’re rubbish at this!’._

He decided against it and let Alfred continue to live in his delusional lies.

“Told you so.” Alfred smiled. Arthur inhaled a sharp breath once more before quickly pulling the van to a stop on the side of the road. Alfred stared at him, and Arthur sighed before turning his head to look at him.

_We are called for attentiveness even when it hurts._

“Alfred...” Arthur began, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white underneath his black gloves.

Alfred smiled at him smugly.

“Don’t you ever dare to leave me.” Alfred said before he grabbed Arthur’s face, his hands on either side, and kissed him. His glasses dug into his cheek, painfully, and he was sure he left a mark. Alfred pulled him closer, manoeuvring him around the interior so that he was firmly placed in Alfred’s lap, inching towards him as Alfred’s tongue moved, hot and messy and clumsy, and his hands brushed up and down his spine. Arthur could feel the war-wounds on his back burn.

“Hey,” Alfred cooed, pulling away to look at Arthur as he touched his cheek, “Hey, listen! Whatever happens, promise me that you won’t leave me.”

He gripped harder.

“Promise me.” He growled. Arthur saw his face shift, it was as though he was angry, no longer insecure: It was as though he was security himself.

Arthur stared at a point left of Alfred’s ear, his gaze distant. His eyes were stinging, and Alfred noticed how glazed they had become before Arthur closed them, his eyelashes fluttering. Alfred reached forward, sweeping his thumb under his eyes and over his cheeks, so lightly it hurt and ached. Arthur tipped his head towards him, his arms were around Alfred’s shoulders.

“You can’t do this,” He whispered, his voice cracking slightly, “You can’t make me... You can’t possibly...”

Alfred realised that his voice was not trembling from raw affection and love, tender caring and adorning emotions, but anger.

“You-” His voice rose as he drew his hands away from Alfred, “Do you think this is funny?”

He breathed heavily, and Alfred did not dare to question him, instead painfully catching his wrists and pushing his thumbs into them. Arthur clawed at his grip.

“You’re lying-” Arthur began.

“What?” Alfred held his wrists tighter as Arthur wrenched his hands free, “I’m not!”

“Oh, please,” Arthur scoffed, “You were always a terrible liar.”

“I’m not!” Alfred shouted.

“How can you expect me to believe you-” Arthur said over his voice.

“You would if you trusted me!” Alfred’s tone shook.

“How can I trust you?” Arthur laughed coldly, “You’re a fool, Alfred.”

“You’re nothing but a fool.” He finished and swallowed thickly, leaving Alfred’s lap and slamming the door loudly before getting in again and sitting on the driver’s seat, starting the rusty van in silence. Alfred could hear his own breath huffing out of his nose over his fast heartbeat in the quiet.

“I imagined V-E Day differently.” Alfred said after a long pause.

“I didn’t.” Arthur frowned.

“Why?” Alfred asked, and he watched Arthur give the trees in front of them a stony glare.

He never answered his question.

:::

_“America,” Arthur said, shuffling the papers and files underneath his arm, “I... I imagined... I never thought that...”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred laughed loudly, his voice echoing in the corridor of the War Office, “You’re here to apologise for Pearl Harbour, I get it. But you’re lying, ‘cause...”_

_Arthur swallowed and stared at the floor._

_“England,” Alfred began, “I know you’re happy to see me. You probably smacked your hands in glee when you heard about it-”_

_“I didn’t.” Arthur interrupted, “And... I’m sorry.” He finished lamely._

_Alfred stared at him._

_“I’m sorry, America,” Arthur repeated, “I’m truly-”_

_“Alfred.”_

_“What?” Arthur asked._

_“Call me Alfred.”He answered, “We’re allies, now, aren’t we?”_

_“Yes,” Arthur said after a moment, tone awkward and hesitant, “Alright.”_

_In the moment of silence that resulted, the loud noise of an air raid sounded, and Arthur bit his lip as he felt the first bombs fall. Blood dripped onto the floor and leaked into the files in his arms. Alfred stared at Arthur slowly pull them away and tentatively touch the wounds._

_“Gosh,” Alfred laughed, “What a wonderful way to start the war!”_

_Arthur laughed, too._

**Author's Note:**

> Both quotes are from ‘Richard II’ by Shakespeare (¬‿¬) 
> 
> Thank you for the support on all my silly one-shots by the way!!!


End file.
